


something haunting in the light of the moon

by dearcecil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, Future Fic, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:51:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcecil/pseuds/dearcecil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles discovers a new kink of his. He tells Derek about it. They both struggle to reconcile their old issues with their new interest. (Luckily, part of being in a relationship is being able to share struggles with your partner.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	something haunting in the light of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> id been thinking about writing something like this for a few days and then i said, "ill make it a fucking halloween fic, whatever, who cares," and then here it is, wow, HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!! its not that great but im not that sober
> 
>  **WARNING for prolonged discussion of rape and explicit descriptions of fantasy rape! please do not proceed if that kind of thing will make you feel bad or gross** , i do not want to make you feel that way, that would be very bad.

Stiles is holding Derek's ankle as they sit on the couch, halfway through an episode of Law and Order, when he says, "I've been thinking about a thing. A sex thing." His grip tightens nervously and then loosens when Derek sits up, but he doesn't let go, just lets his palm and fingers slide over Derek's skin while he adjusts his position.  
  
Derek has known for a while that Stiles has been Capital-T Thinking. He's been pensive for the past week or so, every now and then staring forward into nothing, or rubbing his chin, or blushing at whatever has been happening in his own head, and each time snapping out of it and laughing apologetically, paying Derek double the attention he expects, guilty for daydreaming. He suspected it would be something about sex. Having his theory confirmed is as gratifying as it is nerve-wracking - usually, when one of them wants to try something new, or stop doing something old, or switch things around in some way, they just come out and say it. Whatever Stiles has to say now is probably going to be big.  
  
Derek presses his leg more firmly against Stiles' thighs. "Tell me," he says.  
  
Stiles taps a frantic beat against the top of Derek's foot. "It's kind of... I don't know. Intense. I'm trying to figure out how to start talking about it but it's hard. Can you turn off the TV?"  
  
Derek digs the remote out from underneath one of the cushions and shuts it off halfway through the interrogation scene; it doesn't matter, they've already seen this episode twice. He leans over to place the remote on the coffee table, then sits up further and reaches behind him to move the pillows he's been laying on. When he turns back to look at Stiles, he catches him staring at his abs. "Is it intense like what I asked you about a couple of months ago?"  
  
"Not even close," Stiles snorts. "A mild xeno kink is nothing compared to what I've been thinking about."  
  
"Just tell me," Derek says again.  
  
"Fuck. Okay." Stiles closes his eyes, tilts his head back, breathes in hard through his nose and then lets it all out in a long, controlled exhale from his mouth. "I've been having, um, fantasies. I guess I've kind of always had them, but lately it's been... more. Like, I can't stop thinking about having it happen, and I don't even really know what set it off or why I'm so obsessed with it."  
  
"What is _it_?" Derek asks. He keeps his tone soft. He knows from experience that confessing to a kink or a fantasy is not always an easy thing, and besides, Stiles has never suggested anything that Derek wasn't at least mildly interested in. Part of that is probably something like fate, but another part of it is just that he loves Stiles, is attracted to Stiles, wants to do things with him and to him that he likes, even if they seem weird. He digs his heel into Stiles' thigh for a second. "You can tell me anything."  
  
When Stiles turns his head to look at him, his cheeks are splotched red-pink and his smile is weak; the rabbit-thump of his heartbeat is loud in Derek's ears. "They're rape fantasies," he admits quickly. "I've been having rape fantasies and I don't know why or what to do about it, and I don't expect you to do anything, I'm not saying we should jump face-first into hardcore S &M roleplay or something, I just felt like I should tell you, I felt like- like I needed to tell you. I need to be honest with you." His tongue trips over half of what he says, but that's not the only reason it takes Derek a moment to process his words.  
  
"Okay," he says slowly, just as Stiles' hand begins to shake where it's still on Derek's ankle. Derek pulls his legs away so he can push himself up and get closer to Stiles, grab his hand and lace their fingers together and feel Stiles' sweaty palm against his. "It's okay. I'm not upset, I don't think that's fucked up or whatever you're telling yourself right now."  
  
"Oh, well, cool," Stiles says, his whole body going tense. "It's really cool that you don't think I'm super fucked up. Thanks." Derek is more than used to Stiles' defensive sarcasm, and just rubs his thumb over Stiles' skin until he all but throws himself backward, sinking into the couch cushions and clinging hard to Derek's hand. "It is fucked up, Derek," he says. His eyes are shut tight but frustrated tears still spring up between his eyelashes, the shine of them impossibly clear to Derek as they gather and then fall. Stiles' mouth contorts into a grimace. "Fuck, it's so fucked up, and- You're a fucking _victim_ and I'm sitting here every day thinking about my stupid, sick bullshit, and it's so fucked up, don't you dare tell me it's not fucked up. I know fucked up when I see it," Stiles insists. He wipes his face angrily with his free hand and looks at Derek with red eyes.  
  
"Have you been fantasizing about fucking me and ruining my life?" Derek asks sarcastically; he regrets his aggression instantly, knows that it's obviously not the case, but the accusation jumps Stiles out of self-loathing and he responds before Derek can apologize.  
  
"God, no, of course not," he yelps. "Jesus, Derek. No, it's - it's about me. About getting h-held down and just, just fucked, and not- Never about you. I would never want that to happen to you. Fuck, just the thought of it makes me feel sick, and that's how I know that what I want is sick, okay? Because if it was happening to anyone else, I'd be fucking horrified, but I have these dreams about you forcing me down and using me and I think about how exciting it would be, how helpless I would be and how you could just do _anything_ -" Stiles snaps his mouth shut, shivers. "But never you. I couldn't do that to you and I would _kill_ anyone else who even tried."  
  
Derek unwinds their hands and reaches up to cup Stiles' cheek, his thumb resting near the corner of Stiles' left eye. He swallows hard and tries to wrangle his thoughts into something coherent, determined not to screw this up a second time. Being in a relationship used to make him feel like he had to be cautious all the time, but by now Derek has learned which moments are delicate, and this is definitely one. "I love you," he begins; he already feels like an idiot, starting with something so simple, but Stiles' heart beats a little louder when he says it. "And what you just hinted at, that doesn't sound 'fucked up' to me. It sounds like... giving up control. And like you know that not everyone wants the same thing, and you're scared that because you want it, something is wrong with you."  
  
"I want it to hurt," Stiles whispers. "I want you to make me hurt, and I don't want you to care. You think that's not wrong?"  
  
"I think it just means that you trust me. I don't know if there's anything else to it. I don't know if that would even matter. All I'm sure of is that I support you."  
  
Stiles snorts, and Derek watches a smile come back to his face, small and tremulous. "I know you mean it, but that phrase sounds so..."  
  
"Yeah," Derek says, "I know."  
  
Stiles reaches up to put his hand over the back of Derek's own. "Yeah."

* * *

The thing about being kinky, Stiles thinks, is that it's actually really fucking terrifying sometimes. He's known for a long time that he has a thing for getting dominated; he had endless fantasies about getting on his knees for Lydia in middle school and the first years of high school, would dream about her making him strip down and beg, sometimes caught himself staring at her high heels as they clacked their way over the cheap tile in the hallways and thinking he'd let her _literally_ walk all over him if she wanted to. He just didn't realize that dreaming about getting used could someday turn into, well, dreaming about getting abused.  
  
There is no worst part to the realization that he wants to get 'play raped,' because every single aspect feels like the worst thing in the world. Even when he feared and disliked Derek, he never for a second believed that he might be a rapist, no matter how many times he showed up in a bedroom, or a locker room, or an abandoned house in the middle of the forest; to know that some part of him concocted a vision of Derek committing that crime of his own volition makes Stiles sick with guilt, like he's falsely accused Derek yet again.  
  
It's been said at least six billion times between them: Fantasy and reality are different things. What Stiles dreams of isn't real, so he has no reason to feel bad.  
  
That knowledge is cold comfort.  
  
Anyway, internal struggles aren't even the most horrifying part of being kinky. The scariest shit, to him, is talking to Derek about what he wants, or what he needs. It's not always hellishly bad; telling Derek that he might have a mild foot fetish was easy because he could play it off like a joke, could laugh at everything and say, "I know, it sounds weird, but don't you think it's weirder that so many people are freaked out by them? I mean, most people deal with their own feet every day." On the other hand, trying to talk to Derek about pee was excruciating - his whole body tingled with embarrassment until Derek said, "I've thought about that, too."  
  
Neither of those confessions was anything compared to last night, though. Stiles still feels raw and strange and sensitive, like all his old skin got peeled off overnight without him noticing. He stares at Derek's chest as it rises and falls in his sleep.  
  
"I'm going to think about it," he'd said. Everything about Derek had been gentle in the last few minutes of that night, and Stiles knows that it’s because Derek overcompensates when he loses his temper, but some small part of him is convinced that it had been Derek’s way of letting him down easy, making up for the brutality of his fantasies by being as tender as possible in real life. The truth is probably that Derek judges him as little as Stiles judged Derek when he said, “I’ve always kind of wanted to get knotted,” but it’s hard to believe that. He knows that Derek loves him, knows that he’s never judged him for his sexual appetite, but he can’t reconcile that with his own self-disgust.  
  
Rape, to Stiles, has always seemed like the worst crime a person could commit, more terrible than murder and definitely more terrible than theft. It’s the most intimate violation he can imagine, a sick, twisted form of torture, and he gets off thinking about having it happen to him, and he doesn’t know what that means. Derek told him it wasn’t fucked up, and Stiles is absolutely sure that he only wants it to happen in a controlled situation, but he can’t help but wonder why he feels this way. What made him this way? Does he really hate himself that much? Or does he not hate the act as passionately as he thought?  
  
Sunlight spills onto Derek’s skin from the crack between the curtains.  
  
Stiles rolls out of bed.

* * *

They don’t talk about it the morning after. Derek knows that they should, but all he can do when he wakes up is shuffle to the shower and wrap his arms around Stiles from behind, pressing his cheek against the nape of his neck and trying not to wonder if this is how some of his fantasies start. Not with a kiss against his shoulder, but with his chest slammed against the wall.  
  
He’s not as appalled by the idea as Stiles thinks. If it was outside of a roleplay situation, not something between people who love each other but something real, Derek would be repulsed, enraged at the thought of it. He doesn’t even need to ask himself if he would kill anyone who touched Stiles this way without his permission; he would make his favorite threat a reality, relish the taste of their blood in his mouth. But for something artificial - a scene, he thinks they’re called - Derek doesn’t have the same problems.  
  
For Derek, sexual violation has never come in the form of physical violence; Kate took advantage of him, murdered his family in the most brutal way, but she never forced him, never manhandled him, not until long after their relationship had dissolved and turned to mutual hate. He’s been fooled more than once, manipulated unapologetically, but Derek has always been stronger than his partners. Even when he was a teenager, his lycanthropy guaranteed his strength; he wouldn’t have been able to outmaneuver a hunter like Kate, he wasn’t experienced enough yet, but brute force has always been an option. For a while, he even defined himself by it, bulking up for the sheer novelty of seeing strength reflected inside and out.  
  
That’s the real problem, he thinks. At some point Derek couldn’t even be trusted not to drive a dog into a mad rage just because he _can_ ; couldn’t be trusted not to throw people through walls just to feel their weight leave his hands and hear the crash and crunch of bone and muscle and flesh through wood and drywall. Stiles trusts him, but he doesn’t know if he can trust himself. Doesn’t know if he’s changed enough, become good enough to ride that line between controlled fantasy and real hurt.  
  
If it had been an issue of emotional manipulation, somehow, then Derek is sure he could say no. Stiles would understand, they would know each other more deeply, and things would stay the same. But what Stiles wants from him is almost purely physical - he wants something animalistic, something monstrous, and those are two things that Derek has long felt in himself.  
  
He sighs, crossing his arms and staring at the toaster, waiting for it to pop up his bread and let him finally start his breakfast. Stiles is sitting at the table with a bowl of Froot Loops and an entire carton of milk, his gaze set firmly on his phone, milk dripping from his spoon and into the bowl. Derek opens his mouth to say, “I think,” and his toast pops up loudly.  
  
“What?” Stiles asks, putting the spoon back into the bowl.  
  
“Nevermind,” Derek says. He puts his toast onto his plate, then nudges his egg onto his toast, and smiles to himself when Stiles’ face scrunches up at the sight of him touching a fried egg with his bare hand.

* * *

When Stiles gets home he expects Derek to bring up what he said, to try to talk him through it, but instead he finds himself being kissed as soon as he closes the door, Derek’s hands tugging off his belt and then sliding up the back of his shirt. “Okay,” he mumbles into Derek’s lips, “this is nice.”  
  
Derek pulls back and frowns at him. “Nice?”  
  
“What? It’s a word people use for good things, Derek, come on.”  
  
“The old lady at the library is nice,” Derek says. “Your pants are nice. Me kissing you and trying to get your shirt off isn’t nice.”  
  
Stiles pulls his shirt over his head, drops it onto the floor, and puts his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “You’re really, _really_ nice,” he says. Derek picks him up and carries him to their bedroom, shoulder pressing into Stiles’ gut.

* * *

“I think we should talk about your fantasies,” Derek says as evenly as he can.  
  
“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps, “I can’t believe you waited until mid-footjob to bring this up, are you fucking insane?” Derek presses his heel harder against Stiles’ balls, watches him squirm. He wiggles his toes against the head of Stiles’ cock. “Holy lord,” Stiles whimpers. “Mother of God, Christ almighty-”  
  
He comes on Derek’s toes, which is not as gross as Stiles thinks it is for him. “I was waiting to figure out how to make sure you’d listen to me,” Derek admits as Stiles wipes his foot clean with a tissue from the nightstand. He spreads his toes helpfully, lets Stiles dip between them and feign intense concentration for as long as he needs.  
  
“I don’t know what else there is to talk about.” Stiles carefully twists up the tissue and throws it in the direction of their wastebasket. It hits the side, then falls to the floor, blooming to reveal Stiles’ wiped up come. “Fuck. But, I mean, I think we covered everything last night, so... let’s just never talk about it again, right? That sounds reasonable to me.”  
  
Derek scoots closer to Stiles on the bed, tangling their legs together and resting a hand on his knee. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it, but… I’m interested. I think I’m interested,” he amends. He doesn’t want to lie to Stiles, but it’s difficult enough to navigate these feelings on his own, in his head, much less out loud with Stiles right in front of him. “There are things that I know I like to do, things that I think I’d like to try, but I need to know how they mesh with what you want to do. I need to know your boundaries.”  
  
“I didn’t even get to touch your boner; I can’t believe I didn’t figure out why you were jerking off in the middle of that. You usually don’t come until I do. Ugh,” Stiles sighs. He lays down on his side, curling around Derek’s legs like a puppy, and puts his hand on Derek’s ankle like he did the night before. “Do you want me to get into explicit spoken word stuff, or just kind of sketch out an idea?”  
  
Derek shrugs.  
  
“You’re the least helpful person I’ve ever met in my life. Fuck, all right, I’ll just… I think about stuff like being alone back in my old room, just doing whatever, and then having someone- well, having you come in. Like you own the place, like you don’t even care that you’re in my house because it doesn’t matter. And I guess I’ve never thought of a good reason for you to fuck me like that, but I don’t know if there needs to be a reason at all, like you could just decide in the middle of the day, ‘I’m going to fuck this kid, and there’s nothing he can do about it,’ and I just have to accept that.”  
  
Stiles’ cheeks have been red since Derek tossed him onto the bed, but now the flush is spreading, lighting up his whole face with blood. His hand is sliding up to the soft skin behind Derek’s knee and his eyes are closed, his mouth open.  
  
“And I’ve thought about being at school and having you find me there, too. I don’t think that’s something we could ever do, because it’s just, the thought of you fucking me wherever you feel like it, even if someone else is around, or we’re in public, or something. The idea of you not caring how I feel about it is such a big part of it; the idea of you not even caring if I come, or if I get hurt, or if I can pull myself back together after everything-” He turns his head, looks up at Derek with his eyes half-shut to shield him from the light on the ceiling. “I have no clue why that sounds so good to me. You not giving a shit about me. There’s nothing that makes me happier than knowing that you love me and I have you and I can trust you, but I think about you being a complete asshole, and it’s so-”  
  
“Exciting,” Derek croaks. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to finish Stiles’ sentence, or just admitting the way it feels to him, too. Not the idea of genuinely not caring about Stiles, but the idea of taking him so completely out of his comfort zone and into something new and unexpected; the idea of being welcome to hurt him, being _begged_ to do it.  
  
“Yeah,” says Stiles. “That.”

* * *

After talking about it, Derek seems simultaneously eager and hesitant, like he’s trying to be careful. Stiles doesn’t know what there is to be careful about on Derek’s end, but he’s willing to play along. He isn’t actually sure if they’re ever really going to roleplay it, or if they’re just going to sit around and talk about the million ways he wants Derek to fuck him. He thinks he might feel more comfortable with the latter, simply because making it real would… well, it would make it real.  
  
Still, it seems important to ask. He hops up on the bathroom counter and watches Derek brush his teeth, smiling at him when Derek glances his way, eyebrows bouncing up in question. He laughs when a glob of toothpaste foam falls onto Derek’s bare chest, wipes it off for him with the face towel they keep beside the sink. “Hey,” he says.  
  
Derek leans over the sink, spits, rinses his toothbrush and then his mouth. “Hey.” He brackets Stiles with his arms, kissing him on the cheek with minty-fresh lips, and Stiles closes his eyes so he can bask in the feeling of Derek kissing him, his mouth still slightly wet.  
  
Stiles reaches up to rub his hands over Derek’s beard, just feeling the prickle of his facial hair against his skin. He thinks he understands, now, what’s going on. He has a hunch, at least.  
  
“You’ve been exceedingly gentle these past couple of days,” Stiles says, still petting Derek’s beard. “You’re like a big dog trying to figure out how to be soft around a baby.”  
  
“You need to stop watching those Youtube videos,” Derek murmurs, pressing his face into Stiles’ hands and sighing. “You watch one great dane with a baby, and suddenly everyone is a great dane and everything they touch is a baby.” He turns his head to bite one of Stiles’ fingers, but his teeth press so lightly that they don’t leave a mark, don’t even turn his skin pink when he pulls his hand away.  
  
Stiles doesn’t want to beat around the bush anymore. “I trust you.” He puts his hands under Derek’s ears, presses his thumbs into the lobes. “You’re not going to lose control when you fuck me, or at least not anymore than either of us wants you to. You’re the most disciplined person I’ve ever met, Derek. I’ve seen you keep your cool after getting _mauled_. I’m so sure that you’re not going to accidentally break me if we try this, I would literally bet on it, okay?”  
  
Derek’s hands tighten convulsively on the counter’s edge, making every muscle in his arms flex for a second, and Stiles lets his hands drift down to Derek’s biceps. He traces the veins there lightly with his fingertips.  
  
“Touch me,” he orders. His voice is soft but still sounds loud in the space between them. “Hold my hips.” Derek obeys quietly, keeping his eyes fixed at Stiles’ waist while he reaches up to touch his hips, fitting them into his hands until the webs of his thumbs are flush against Stiles’ skin. His touch is like a whisper - barely there, because he’s straining so hard to test the boundaries of his control. Not the far end, but the closest end, where gentleness lives.  
  
Stiles puts his hands over Derek’s and squeezes. He grips as hard as he can, pressing Derek’s fingers into his skin, using force that he knows will bruise because he’s done it to himself before, because Derek’s done it to him before. His skin is white from too much pressure, the color shifting to deep pink the further away it is from their points of contact; Derek has red circles where Stiles is digging into his hands, and when Stiles looks up at him his eyes are red-rimmed, too.  
  
“I’m scared that I’ll hurt you,” Derek says, “because I want you too much.”  
  
Stiles lets go of Derek’s hands, and Derek’s grip softens in an instant, soothing the sore patches that they just condemned to bruising. “You idiot,” Stiles says. “Haven’t you figured it out already? I never hurt when I’m with you.” He slides his fingers over Derek’s veins, swollen and black.  
  
In bed, Derek touches his hips. The bruises are like nothing more than paint on his skin.

* * *

Derek follows Stiles into the bathroom on Saturday morning, watches him peel off his clothes and step into the tub. “Come here,” Stiles says, smiling. His hair is mussed from sleep and his eyes are only half-open, and he’s sitting in the empty bathtub with his hands in his lap, dark yellow-purple handprints next to his wrists. Derek sits on the edge of the tub, leans down to kiss him, then stands again, cracking his neck and shoulders with loud pops and snaps. “Your bones are a grotesque mystery,” Stiles yawns.  
  
“Thanks,” Derek says, unbuttoning his pajamas. He pulls his dick out through the fly of his pants. He feels like a giant, towering over Stiles from beside the tub, and it’s heady, too much to figure out this early in the morning. He holds his dick with one hand and pisses over Stiles’ hair, face, shoulders, chest, then settles around his stomach, watching Stiles lazily jerk off while Derek’s piss flows down toward his cock. He looks so relaxed, but Derek can’t help imagining this happening differently: Stiles on his stomach, in the bed he left behind in his childhood bedroom, Derek’s come leaking out of him while Derek pisses on him, and on those sea blue sheets he loved to use. “Fuck.”  
  
Stiles looks up at him, grinning. “Yeah?”  
  
“Fuck,” Derek says instead of answering coherently. The last few spurts land on Stiles’ dick and then Derek’s hard, working his own cock in time with Stiles. “Tell you later,” he promises, and he comes on Stiles’ chest with a groan.  
  
After Stiles comes, they shower, and after they shower, Stiles presses his wet towel against Derek’s mouth and says, “All right, buddy, time to spill the beans.”  
  
Derek pushes the towel away and musses Stiles’ hair. “I had an idea about the scene you want to do.”  
  
Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Scene? You mean the roleplay thing? Dude, have you been reading BDSM guides online or something?”  
  
“No,” Derek lies. “But I thought… you want to feel owned, right?” Stiles nods slowly, and his eyes are lighting up the way they do when he’s starting to understand something. “I could do that, after. Piss on you, I mean, but- it would be different from the way we do it now, obviously. The same idea, but the intent would be different. I would be claiming you to humiliate you, it wouldn’t be an intimacy thing like it is normally. Would that be okay?”  
  
“‘Would that be okay,’ he says,” Stiles mutters. “God, Derek, that sounds freaking amazing, I don’t even know why I didn’t think of it before.”  
  
“It wouldn’t make you feel strange about it normally?” Derek asks.  
  
“No? I don’t think so, anyway. We can’t know for sure until we try it, I think, but I’m reasonably certain that having you pee on me for some multi-layered reasons is totally fine. And I pee on you too, sometimes, so it’s not like I don’t know how it feels.” He balls up the wet towel he’s been toying with and drops it in the hamper they keep beside the bathroom door, then grabs a comb from the counter and puts it in Derek’s hand. “Now fix my hair since you messed it up, you asshole.”

* * *

“I can’t believe how comfortable I feel about this now,” Stiles says as he straddles Derek’s lap. His hair is dry, his stomach is full of bacon and potatoes, and his Derek is making that happy rumbling noise that he’s not always aware of. “I was crying on our couch. I was having nightmares about what a piece of shit I am, and now I’m about to sit on your dick and talk to you about exactly how we want you to pretend to sexually assault me.”  
  
“You were only ever as fucked up as I am,” Derek says. His smile is pure sap, and Stiles feels happy, safe.  
  
“I’m really glad I found you,” Stiles tells him, scratching his nails through Derek’s hair. “Or that you found me. Either way. Now let me tell you what I’ve been thinking…”

* * *

Stiles’ phone chimes with a text notification, and he puts down the bag of Kit-Kats he’s been feeding into his cheap jack-o’-lantern bucket to read the message preview. There’s nothing but a diamond, and the message is from Derek, who never texts him. He squints at the message for a moment before deciding it’s a misfire, then shrugs, locks his phone, and goes back to pouring candy into the bucket. He’s trying to decide whether or not he _really_ wants to put all of the Reese’s pumpkins into the bucket when he feels someone standing behind him. He starts to turn, but not fast enough; a hand grabs him by the back of his shirt, nearly choking him with the collar, and he spills the rest of the candy on the floor as he kicks out in alarm.  
  
Fingers dig into his hair and tug, pulling his head back. Derek’s stubble burns when he puts his face against Stiles’ ear, holding him close to make it harder for him to struggle. He’s unbelievably strong. His grip is like iron, and he’s holding so much of Stiles’ hair that if he tries to jerk his head away, either nothing will happen or he’ll rip it all out, so Stiles doesn’t even try. Instead, he says, “What the _fuck_!?” and kicks Derek’s shins with his bare feet.  
  
Derek’s laugh is light, and for some reason that chills him. He gasps in a breath when Derek lets go of his shirt, but when Derek’s hand snakes beneath it and up to his chest, it’s like he’s been punched; all the air he just sucked in comes gusting out and he feels his stomach drop, his blood pounding madly in his veins. “Derek, no,” he says. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, this is- This isn’t something you need to do, okay, so please don’t-”  
  
Derek crushes Stiles against him suddenly, his arm tense against Stiles’ chest, keeping him locked in place. “Don’t tell me what I need to do,” he says. “Do you know what tonight is?”  
  
“H-Halloween?” Stiles guesses nervously. “Is this like… like a werewolf prank?”  
  
Derek lets go of his hair, smooths it down, smiles against his neck. “No, Stiles. This isn’t a prank.” He scoops him up, carries him like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder, holding both of Stiles’ legs down with one arm. Stiles can’t see where he’s going, but he’s lived here long enough that the floor is all he needs to see to know they’re headed toward the bedroom. “But you’re right, it is Halloween.” He tosses Stiles onto the bed, and before Stiles can get over how disorienting it is to be upside down over a man’s shoulder one moment, and lying down on a bed the next, Derek is crawling on top of him, pinning him against the sheets.  
  
“Don’t,” Stiles says. He has no illusions about where this is going.  
  
Derek pops his claws, dips them beneath Stiles’ stretched out collar and lets them glide over his chest. “No,” he replies. He snags the cloth of Stiles’ shirt with his claws and swipes downward, tearing it mostly in half; ragged strips of it cling to his fingers and brush over Stiles’ stomach. He’s ticklish there, but right now all he feels is an empty swoop, no pleasure to be had.  
  
“Derek, please-”  
  
Derek flips him over, pressing his face into the bedspread and pulling his shirt up off of him. Stiles can feel his dick through his jeans and Stiles’ track pants, pressing against his ass. Derek settles his knees in the backs of Stiles’ own, and it _hurts_ , the weight of all that muscle just on two vulnerable points of flesh. He slides Stiles’ pants down until they can go no further, and laughs at his Batman boxers, smacking his ass. Stiles jumps, starts to push up with his arms to try to get away again, and Derek presses his claws right against the highest stretch of his spine, one, two, three, four pinpricks, thumb-claw alone on his shoulderblade. Stiles freezes.  
  
“That’s right,” Derek says. He follows Stiles’ skin until he’s lying flat on the bed again, body tense and pulse skyrocketing. He presses down just enough that Stiles feels a bit of wetness near the bottom of his neck - blood. Just a little, but that’s more than he planned on getting clawed out of him tonight. More than he planned on getting clawed out of him _ever_.  
  
Derek shifts off of Stiles’ legs, like he knows Stiles will behave now, and slides his pants off all the way. His claws brush against the back of Stiles’ right thigh, and Stiles thinks he’ll rip his underwear off him, too, but in the end all Derek does is slide them off. Stiles can feel the warmth of his body as he hovers just above Stiles’ ass, and the sound of his fly being undone seems unbearably loud. The only other sound is Stiles’ heavy breathing as he tries not to talk, or scream, or struggle, or cry.  
  
“Maybe you’ve read about this,” Derek says. Stiles can hear the bedsheets rustling, the unmistakable sound of jeans being tossed onto a carpeted floor. “It’s an old tradition, though, so maybe not. Most people don’t do it anymore, because they think it’s too barbaric.” His voice is muffled for a moment as he pulls his shirt off. “I used to be like that, actually.” He drops his shirt on the floor, voice clear as a bell again. “But then I met you, and I suddenly understood everything I’d ever read about, ever heard about in the old stories we have. It never made much sense to me, that pull that would get described, but now…”  
  
Derek’s hands cup Stiles’ ass, claws gone but grip unmercifully tight as he squeezes. He pulls Stiles’ cheeks apart, and Stiles could swear that he hears Derek licking his chops.  
  
“I’m going to make you mine,” Derek whispers. He dips a thumb between Stiles’ ass cheeks and presses it against his hole, rubs up and down before laughing. “I’ll claim you tonight, for all the spirits to see, and you’ll be _mine_.”  
  
“You’re fucking crazy,” Stiles says. He’s not bothering to suppress his tears anymore; it doesn’t matter, not when Derek is clearly unwilling to stop. He’s going to be seen at his weakest whether or not he cries. “Fuck you.”  
  
Derek just laughs again, yanking Stiles up by the hips, pushing him forward until his arms and legs are on the bed, his ass high in the air. “Like a bitch waiting to get mounted,” Derek tells him proudly, and Stiles clenches the bedspread tightly in his fists. Derek kneels behind him, pulls him open again and presses his dick between Stiles’ cheeks, just rubbing the length of his dick up and down against Stiles’ hole. When he stops, Stiles expects him to do- something. At least lube up his own dick, so he won’t hurt himself when he fucks in, but Derek doesn’t seem like he cares; he just presses the tip of his cock against Stiles and starts to push in slowly.  
  
“Stop,” Stiles begs, “fuck, Derek, stop, you can’t-”  
  
Derek surges forward, sliding too much in too fast, gripping Stiles’ neck hard like he’s disciplining a dog. “What did I tell you?” he asks. He’s holding his hips deathly still.  
  
“D-don’t tell you what to do,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t anymore, I promise.”  
  
Derek holds him silently for a moment more, then pushes his head into the mattress hard before letting go. He slides the rest of his cock into Stiles, and just starts fucking, holding Stiles in place so he can take his pleasure at his own pace. Stiles curls his arms around his head to try to muffle the sound of his sobs, but of course Derek can hear him. He slaps Stiles hard on the ass. “If you’re going to cry, be quiet,” he orders.  
  
Stiles bites his lip hard enough to bleed, trying to keep the noise in. Derek’s thrusts are like nothing he’s ever felt before; if he wasn’t holding him so firmly, Stiles is sure he would already have slid up the bed, bumped his head against the headboard. He thinks he’d be flat against the bed without Derek keeping his ass up high, and he’s glad for that, at least. If his cock isn’t touching anything but air, he can’t be forced to come from this. Derek can use him, but he can’t control his body that much, doesn’t even seem like he wants to.  
  
The push-tug of Derek’s fucking almost fades into the background, but Derek himself doesn’t. He only needs one hand to keep Stiles stable, and he uses the other to touch him. None of his touching seems to have any reason other than to feel Stiles’ body; he presses his fingertips against Stiles’ rim throughout a few thrusts, then maps out a constellation that Stiles thinks is guided by the moles on his back, then just rests a hand on Stiles’ stomach like some horrible caricature of an embrace. He comes like that, with one hand on Stiles’ stomach and one hand on his hip, buried deep inside his ass. He stays inside even after his dick goes soft.  
  
“This is the best you’ve ever looked,” Derek says warmly. He lets go of Stiles, and just lets his body fall, his cock tugged out carelessly when it happens. Stiles groans pitifully, the first noise he’s aware of making in- he doesn’t know how long it’s been, since Derek started. His ass feels raw. His whole body feels achy and bruised though Derek barely touched him. He whimpers when he feels something wet trickle out of his ass and down to his balls.  
  
Derek pets his thigh. “You don’t like that?” he asks, like he cares. “Hate feeling my come leak out of your little ass?” He spreads Stiles’ legs apart, keeps them open by pushing his knees tight against his thighs. “You’ll like this,” he promises, and Stiles feels a new trickle, warm and horrifying, hit the small of his back before moving down over his ass. He sobs, loudly this time, but Derek doesn’t say anything, just scoots back so he can flip Stiles over and piss over his soft dick and stomach.  
  
He smiles up at him, moonlight harsh against his face, half lit and half in shadow. His eyes blaze blue.

* * *

Derek helps Stiles stretch his legs out, feeling like he’s back on a high school sports team as he leans against him. “Do you need anything else?” he asks. He thinks this might be the seventh or eighth time he’s asked, but Stiles doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if he has, he doesn’t mind.  
  
“Feed me,” Stiles says, pouting.  
  
Derek unwraps a Reese’s pumpkin, because he knows that’s what Stiles wants from him, and presses it against Stiles’ mouth. After Stiles had calmed down from his crying, and Derek’s legs had recovered from a surprisingly powerful orgasm, Derek had pulled him up from the bed and guided him into the shower. They’d left the bed as it was - thank God almighty for rubber sheets - and Derek had washed Stiles carefully, petting his back and ass, rinsing his hole clean.  
  
“You thought I was being paranoid when I made you prep that much,” Derek mutters.  
  
“That is the third time you have said that,” Stiles sighs. “If I tell you, you were right, I was wrong, my ass needed ten gallons of lube, you’re a sex genius, will you shut up and feed me more pumpkins?”  
  
“You’re feeling well enough to sass me but not well enough to unwrap your own candy?”  
  
“I was tensing my arms _really hard_ when I was crying, okay? Jesus. It was intense, I don’t need to explain myself to you, shut the hell up and feed me a pumpkin. It’s Halloween, Derek. Feeding me will claim me in front of all the spirits-”  
  
“Stop.”  
  
“-and then I’ll be yours forever, because you gave me a magical werewolf blood sacrifice on Halloween, so give me the pumpkin.”  
  
Derek throws Stiles’ candy at him, and goes to stuff the rubber sheet in the washing machine.  
  
“I love you!” Stiles yells across the room.  
  
“Yeah, I love you too,” Derek says, stepping carefully around the pile of candy Stiles left strewn across the living room.

**Author's Note:**

> THINGS THAT WERE ALLUDED TO BUT WHICH I DID NOT INCLUDE BUT WHICH I WANT YOU TO DEFINITELY THINK ABOUT BECAUSE I DO, ALL THE TIME:
> 
> • Derek being into knotting but as a receptive party rather than as The Giver Of The Knot  
> • Derek becoming alpha and feeling weird about having a knot  
> • Stiles buying Derek a knot dildo from a store like Bad Dragon  
> • Derek buying a frighteningly realistic knot dildo from a store like Elypse Art  
> • Derek getting fucked by a knot dildo  
> • Watersports (just in general (please))  
> • Stiles with a foot fetish (100% serious)  
> ANYWAY HAPPY HALLOWEEN ONCE AGAIN. HOPE U ALL HAD A GOOD TIME, GOD BLESS


End file.
